


Making Love For the First Time

by tiger_moran



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes (Downey films), Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Anal Sex, Asexual Character, Bisexual Character, Cuddling & Snuggling, Developing Relationship, Love, M/M, Making Love, Oral Sex, Post-Coital Cuddling, Trust
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-29
Updated: 2017-10-29
Packaged: 2019-01-26 10:06:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,964
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12555036
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tiger_moran/pseuds/tiger_moran
Summary: Written for the prompt "Making love for the first time".In part because Moriarty is aroace and in part because I think that's just how they roll, I take that to refer to the first time they have sex where Moriarty is more aware of Moran's love for him/his desire for a romantic relationship with more non-sexual physical intimacy with Moriarty, but they have had sex together previously.





	Making Love For the First Time

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt requested by calamityisalve. This is part of my Moriarty/Moran Prompt Fics series but I'm posting it separately as this one, unlike the others, does involve sex.

“You're sure you want this?” Moran asks, and Moriarty laughs as he is nudged backwards against the bed.

“Yes.”

“Can I kiss you?”

“Yes.” Moriarty smiles as he runs his hands down Moran's sides. His touch feels sure and confident against Moran's skin but when Moran kisses him on the lips, the kisses back are hesitant, even clumsy, not just from inexperience but perhaps also from a basic lack of understanding of why exactly Moran even wants to kiss him. The clumsiness doesn't matter though. The Professor's present lack of finesse and self-assurance in these particular acts are endearing, and it means everything to Moran that Moriarty would agree to even try any of this.

Pulling back from the kiss, Moran looks at Moriarty's face questioningly, his gaze enquiring and searching. He seems to be paying very little attention to the Professor's barely-clothed body. “We don't have to do this,” he says.

“I want to try it,” Moriarty assures him.

“But if you don't like it-”

“Then I will know for future reference.” Moriarty looks up at Moran boldly, with an almost coquettish tilt of his head. “Sebastian,” he says. “I freely admit that I don't quite know what it is you desire of me. I thought I understood and yet it turns out I understood almost nothing at all, and I am not... not used to being wrong.”

Moran, engaged in removing Moriarty's under-shirt, pauses. “Sorry,” he says, uncertain what else is expected of him here.

“I don't want you to be sorry, only... my dove, you must _tell_ me what it is you desire from me.”

With the under-shirt tossed aside, Moran is astride Moriarty now, pressing him back against the pillows, leaning over him in a manner that might seem almost predatory. But there is nothing truly intimidating about him in this moment. All that Moriarty sees in his companion's – his _lover's_ – eyes is concern for him.

“I don't... I don't wish to push you into things you don't want.” Moran lightly brushes Moriarty's chest with his fingertips. “I never want that.”

“You are _not_ pushing.” Moriarty lifts his hands, running them down Moran's naked sides again. “I am telling you, if you want to do this, I want to experience it.”

Moran glances away and lets out a little huffing sound, not quite a sigh but close. “Sometimes you sound almost...”

“What?” Moriarty enquires.

“ _Scientific,_ ” Moran says, glancing back at him.

“Is not the human body scientific?” Moriarty remarks. “Biology, chemistry.” He waves a hand airily, dismissively.

“And what of emotions?” Moran asks. “Thoughts? Feelings?”

“Are you implying that I am unfeeling?”

“No.” Moran shakes his head. “No, sir, not unfeeling, just... I don't want to fuck you only as some sort of... experiment.”

“Not even when I am willing to be _experimented_ on in such a way?” Moriarty continues to caress Moran's sides, seeing how the Colonel unconsciously leans into the touch. “Experimented on by you, and only you, Sebastian, because I trust you.” Which is the crux of it, the core of his reason for willingly placing himself in such a vulnerable position. Not that here at last is someone for whom Moriarty feels some manner of innate sexual desire – even now he feels nothing he could label so, and he is by this point in time too old to think he will now ever have some manner of sexual awakening in this regard. But Moran and Moran alone perhaps out of all the millions of men in the world is the one sole person he trusts to do this with him. “There is nobody else I would permit to do this to me,” he tells him. “Forcing you into it however would be the very last thing I would wish to do.”

At this Moran laughs sharply. “Yet I feel almost as if _I_ am the one forcing _you_ into things.”

“I am not a child, Sebastian, nor an idiot. I am perfectly capable of freely giving my consent. If you don't wish to do things this way that of course is another matter, one which I would respect. However...” He drops his hand to loosely stroke Moran's hardening cock. “ _This_ would tend to suggest that you do indeed wish to do things this way.”

“I do,” Moran says. Betrayed by his own body, he thinks wryly. He always is in the end of course – he could never deny his longing for the Professor for very long - but customarily he is the one offering himself up to the Professor, not vice-versa. “Of course I do.”

“Then do it.” Moriarty smiles. “Please, Colonel. Oblige me in this. Treat me as you would all those others you have taken this way.”

“This ain't like all those others,” Moran says, although he drops his face down lower to kiss Moriarty's neck. “You're not... like the others.” He fails to elaborate just why that is the case though. Perhaps he cannot, or at least perhaps he cannot speak it aloud. In truth it is probably less to do with the Professor himself and far more to do with Moran's regard for him. Mercifully though Moriarty chooses not to press the matter.

The Professor laughs as Moran's lips brush over his throat. “I feel rather like the virgin bride on my wedding night,” he remarks as Moran kisses his way downwards.

Moran pauses, grinning. “You ain't a virgin.” Of course he knows that very well by now, even if he was uncertain about the Professor's experience prior to becoming his most intimate companion.

“Half a virgin, perhaps,” Moriarty says. “I suppose technically speaking I have already lost half of my virginity, but I shall require you to relieve me of- ah.” He hesitates as Moran closes his mouth gently over a nipple. “Of the remaining portion.”

The sound that Moran makes now, his mouth still pressed to Moriarty's chest, is almost a hum. Moriarty suspects it is probably a laugh.

“If you insist,” Moran says, momentarily becoming far more masterful as he moves even further down. He slides his hand under the Professor's still soft prick, lifting it carefully before placing his lips around its head.

Moriarty lets his head fall back against the pillow and he unwittingly fists his hands in Moran's hair. Not a wholly new act to him – Moran has pleasured him this way several times by now - but still one that Moran has performed infrequently enough for it to still be rather novel. This delay was in large part down to Moriarty's initial reluctance to allow the Colonel to put him into such a vulnerable position, to wield such power over him. The remaining portion of his reluctance though perhaps came from Moriarty not understanding the point of it, failing to see why anyone would get much pleasure out of it. Would having someone else's mouth wrapped around that particular portion of one's anatomy truly feel as good as Moran claimed? He doubted it, although it is one of those rare things where he has been quite pleased to discover he was wrong. And why would anyone wish to take that portion of someone's anatomy in their mouth? It all seemed to Moriarty to be unpleasantly messy and an act that leaves, quite literally, an unpleasant taste in one's mouth. Yet Moran had no reluctance about performing the act upon him. Indeed he positively seems to relish it, for reasons Moriarty still cannot wholly understand, but by this point in their relationship he is quite content to let Moran indulge these desires from time to time.

For a few moments he closes his eyes and lets the raw physicality of it first excite him, then come close to overwhelming him – the warmth and wetness of Moran's mouth, the sure and steady touch of Moran's hands, the feel of Moran's hair tangled around his fingers. It would be so, so easy to go along with this, taking things to their inevitable conclusion in this manner, but through the feelings of pleasure that wash through him he remembers that is not what he wants, not this time.

“Moran,” he says, opening his eyes. “Stop.”

Moran pauses, looking up at him questioningly.

“I don't want to... not like this. I want to... to finish with you inside me.” Moriarty struggles to express what he means, not embarrassed precisely about sexual talk, but still so unused to it.

Moran draws his head back and strokes his hand up the front of Moriarty's thigh. “Whatever you want, Professor,” he says. He slides over Moriarty, moving behind him. His own erect prick brushes the back of the Professor's thigh as he positions himself, and he feels Moriarty shiver. “You cold?” he asks.

“No,” Moriarty says, failing to add that it is not the cold that makes him tremble. Not fear – he is not afraid either of the act or of Moran – but still he is on edge, full of nervous anticipation. They drank together earlier in the evening, not just the wine at dinner but also the brandy after, before Moriarty led Moran up to his bedroom; before they began carefully, slowly, to remove each other's clothing piece by piece. But the alcohol was sufficient only to take the edge off Moriarty's tension, not to blunt it. The last thing Moran wanted was the Professor too drunk to know what he was agreeing to, nor would Moriarty wish to be so inebriated he could recall nothing of the events once they were over.

For once in their relationship Moran leads and Moriarty follows. There has been sex before but nothing like this, with Moran taking charge and Moriarty putting himself completely in Moran's hands. His eyes are closed as Moran prepares him, easing an oiled finger inside him, gradually adding a second finger alongside it. He bites his lower lip as Moran so very carefully opens him up, unable to keep back a slight gasp as Moran pushes a little deeper within him.

“You all right?” Moran asks, drawing his hand back.

Moriarty opens his eyes and glances back over his shoulder. “Yes, I, ah.... Just... get on with it.”

“You're sure?” Moran asks again, on the threshold. Because he cannot do otherwise but question again. Because no matter how stoic the Professor may be, Moran can sense the nervousness behind his smile. Nervous but not truly afraid however.

Moriarty laughs again. “How many times, my dove?” A little roll of his eyes to convey his mock-exasperation. “With you, yes.”

Moran turns his head and kisses Moriarty's cheek, closing his eyes momentarily. He is rather glad he is behind Moriarty, for he doesn't trust himself to look the Professor in the eyes at this time, afraid he might blurt out some reckless confession. Instead he wraps himself around Moriarty's body, embracing him, drawing him close. His eyes are closed again as he eases his cock inside the Professor, even though in this position he could not meet Moriarty's gaze even if he wished to. He nips at Moriarty's earlobe as he enters him, not hard; enough to provide a little differing sensation, a brief distraction perhaps; nowhere near forceful enough to hurt.

When Moriarty lets out a faint gasp though Moran opens his eyes, seeing the Professor's fingers clenching into the sheets.

“You're all right?” he asks against the back of Moriarty's neck. He stills his body, giving the Professor a second or two to grow used to the feeling of being filled up.

“Yes.” Moriarty laughs softly. He uncurls his fingers. “I'm perfectly all right. It just...” He considers it for a moment, that feeling of pressure and fullness. “It feels bigger than I expected, bigger than it looks.”

Moran chuckles. “I'm not sure whether to be insulted or flattered by that,” he says. He runs his fingers down Moriarty's side, idly caressing him, before shifting his hand to wrap it around the Professor's prick. It is, to Moran's relief, still hard. “I don't want to hurt you,” he says. He knows that it's likely there will be some discomfort no matter how careful he is, something he tried to make plain to Moriarty before they even began this, but he wants to minimise that discomfort as much as possible.

“It's nothing. Please, continue.”

So Moran does. So close to him, joined with him, he can smell the Professor's skin and the light scent of his hair oil; he can hear his slightly ragged breathing, and a further catch of breath when Moran firmly strokes Moriarty's length, coaxing another gasp from him as Moran shifts position slightly inside him.

“James.” He says this against the back of Moriarty's shoulder. He can feel the Professor's body tight against his, tensing at first but slowly melting against him as Moran thrusts slowly into him. “Do you... want me to carry on?” It is becoming harder and harder to think, as he becomes more and more lost in the feeling of being inside the Professor, his master, his lover, his companion. Harder and harder too for him to hold himself back, to stop himself thrusting inside Moriarty quickly, almost furiously. But still through the haze of pleasure he clings on to that desire to protect the Professor, no matter what.

Moriarty glances back at him and smiles again. “Yes,” he says, because he has to know what all of this feels like, right up to the end; because Moran is the first person he has ever wanted and trusted to do this to him.

Contrary to what some might suspect of him, Moran is not typically a selfish lover, despite his general lack of profound attachment to the majority of his past sexual partners. Of course he has had sex many, many times for his own pleasure, but he is not wholly self-interested even with virtual strangers. Even with men or women whom he knew he would never see again after a few minutes of coupling it had always mattered to him that his partner enjoyed the experience too, no matter how brief it was.

His deep regard for the Professor though makes this very different to most of his past encounters. He knows he has far more to lose than ever before if he messes this up – his job, even his life perhaps, if Moriarty was to take extreme offence. But worst of all maybe is the thought of losing the Professor's trust.

“Sebastian,” Moriarty says to him over his shoulder, when Moran slows almost to a halt again. “Continue, please.”

Moran kisses his neck and closes his eyes again as he resumes his thrusts. He tries so, so hard to provide the Professor with as many pleasurable physical feelings as possible, with his prick; with his hands too, and coaxes a gasp of pleasure out of Moriarty as he directs his thrusts in just the right way.

“Sebastian!” Moriarty hisses when Moran again angles his movements to press against his prostate. “I...” But he seems not to know what else to say, or else words have eluded him now, his mind becoming too overwhelmed by physical sensation as Moran gently rocks his hips.

Moriarty is very close to finishing, Moran is sure, and so is he, but he wants so much for the Professor to come first. Moriarty has surrendered himself to Moran in this most intimate way and in return Moran wants the Professor to experience that moment of most intense pleasure before he does. It is not to be though. He cannot fight his own body's urges any more, cannot hold himself back any longer.

“Professor, I'm gonna...” he says but trails off in the moment of release. Moriarty tenses around him as Moran comes with his prick planted deep inside him. “James, James, James, liebchen,” Moran murmurs against the back of the Professor's neck as he spends within him. Almost unconsciously he continues to pump Moriarty's length all the while, stroking him still with surety and skill, until he feels the Professor tense further, letting out a strangled cry as he too comes. “It's all right,” Moran says softly in Moriarty's ear, continuing to gently stroke him through it as the Professor's release spills over his hand. “It's all right, Professor.”

After the tension, Moriarty slumps under him, spent and momentarily exhausted. Moran remains atop him for a few moments more, saying nothing for there seems for now nothing that needs to be said. Only when Moriarty's breathing has become slower and more even does Moran press a kiss to his shoulder before slowly easing himself back.

“You all right?” he asks.

Moriarty seems to steel himself to answer this as he rolls over onto his back to regard Moran. He looks somewhat shaken, although a smile crosses his face. “Yes,” he answers. “I'm all right.”

Moran has never seen him look so vulnerable as he looks in this moment. It is not something he thinks he would want to get too used to, lest his protective instincts towards the Professor end up compromised by the act becoming too commonplace between them.

He snatches up an old but clean towel they have kept close by for this purpose and wipes the mess first from his hand, then as best he can from the Professor's body. A more thorough clean-up will be necessary shortly, but that must wait a moment. There are things he must know first.

“Did you...?” He keeps his gaze lowered at first, as if reluctant to see the true answer in Moriarty's expression, in his eyes, in case the answer is a bad one. But then with more assertiveness he raises his eyes and looks fully at the Professor. “Did you hate it?”

Moriarty smiles still as he beckons to Moran, drawing him closer again. “I didn't hate it, my dove.”

“But did you like it?” Moran dares to ask.

“I would not be opposed to the idea of trying it again another time, if you wanted to.”

“I'd like to.” Relieved, Moran snuggles against the Professor's side. “Although... I reckon I'll still always prefer it when you're the one fucking me.”

“I had suspected you might prefer it this way,” Moriarty admits. “It seems more what you are used to, with all your _conquests_.”

Moran grins, used to the Professor's affectionate teasing about his past sexual history. He knows there is no malice in Moriarty's comments upon the matter. He shrugs slightly. “Things are different with you,” he says. For Moriarty is not the only one here who does not trust - _cannot_ trust - others easily. Who fears allowing himself be put in such a vulnerable position. With the Professor though it has been different almost from the start. When Moriarty is on top of him, inside him, Moran has always felt strangely... _safe_. A queer thing indeed with a man who may order murder as coolly as other men might order a pint of ale or a plate of bread and cheese, and yet Moriarty has never once betrayed Moran's trust in him.

“Well, it is good to vary things a little from time to time,” the Professor says.

“Mmm,” Moran says in agreement, closing his eyes. “D'you want me to run you a bath?” he asks after a few seconds.

“In a few minutes.”

“Did I hurt you, when I...?”

“No.”

“I'd hate to think that I had.”

“You didn't. There was a little brief discomfort, no more. Stop fretting.”

“Sorry.” Moran laughs.

“Are you always like this, with your partners?” Moriarty enquires.

Moran opens his eyes, finding the Professor regarding him earnestly, genuinely curious. “Some of them,” Moran answers. “If they weren't experienced.”

A small smile plays over Moriarty's lips. That Moran is peculiarly sensitive for a man who has repeatedly killed without remorse has always been a source of amusement to him. A murderer he may be, but he seems to abhor the idea of hurting or even somehow offending anyone during sex.

“I just... I want to make you happy,” Moran says, seeming to blush slightly at this.

“You do.”

“We don't have to do this again, or any other kind of sex, if you don't want to.”

“I want to.”

“If you change your mind sometime though.” Moran rests his head against Moriarty's chest, in part because he simply likes to lie this way, with the Professor's heart beating steadily beneath his cheek. It also has the benefit though of meaning he is not able to look Moriarty in the eye. “I know that... how you feel about it isn't like how I feel about it. I don't want you to feel... you know... _obligated_ , to continue this. Not at any time.”

“I'll keep that in mind.” Moriarty allows Moran to remain in this position for a time. It seems to make it easier for him to talk, to open up in ways he would not be able to at any other time for the Colonel is a man who frequently struggles to let go, to simply relax. Besides, Moriarty rather likes the feeling of it himself, if he is honest about it – Moran's face resting against him, Moran's warm body curled around him. There is something innately pleasurable about this, and something immensely endearing too about Moran's trust in him. He slips his arm around Moran's shoulders, letting it rest there for a minute or two.

“I should run you that bath now,” Moran says at last, and Moriarty – with some reluctance – draws his arm aside, letting Moran sit up.

How vexing it is that reality and all of its banalities – the necessity of cleaning up properly after sex for one – must intrude into this moment, the Professor thinks as Moran slips off the bed. But then he supposes, as he hears the sound of water splashing into the bathtub down the passageway, that even though he is not entirely sure quite what he has agreed to get himself into, he _has_ entered into some manner of committed relationship with Moran. The Colonel seems to have every intention of sticking with him and not merely in a professional capacity but in a very private one also. Bearing this in mind then there should be numerous further opportunities in the future for them to spend a great deal more time together, indulging in a great many more acts like that which they have just participated in – not only the sex but all the other forms of physical intimacy also.

Resting his hand against the space where Moran lay a few minutes ago, another thought occurs to the Professor.

“Bath's ready,” Moran says upon returning to the bedroom. “You look thoughtful; what were you thinking about?”

“That I will have to purchase a larger bed,” Moriarty replies. “If you are going to make a habit of sharing it with me.”

Moran seems to ponder this statement for a second or two. “Are you... _asking_ me to share it with you?” Still there is hesitancy in his voice; uncertainty. He still keenly remembers the disappointment he always tried to suppress when in the earliest days of their intimate relationship, after sex they would go their separate ways and he would retreat to his own room to sleep alone. It was never a deliberate rejection, nor even an expression by Moriarty of some kind of aversion to other forms of physical intimacy, he realises now. The Professor clearly does not hate those acts, in fact he seems to relish many of them, but previously he simply had no idea that Moran so desperately longed to be embraced by him; to snuggle close to him; to sleep beside him.

“Yes, pet.” Moriarty smiles. “I'm asking you to share my bed, if you wish to.”

Moran grins. “I'd like that,” he says. “I'd like that very much.”

 


End file.
